Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 15

"So that's it. That was her big threat. She was a crazy lady, but I loved her. And I would never dream of hurting her."

And the tears welling in his eyes sure made it seem like he was telling the truth.

I was heading for my Corolla when a bright yellow VW Beetle came zooming into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in the spot next to mine.

Ca.s.sie sprang from the car, dressed head to toe in black leather, carrying a huge bouquet of dahlias.

"Did I miss the service?" she asked breathlessly.

"I'm afraid so."

"d.a.m.n. I had to drive to three different flower shops before I finally found these dahlias."

"How sweet of you, Ca.s.sie. They're beautiful."

"Joy hated dahlias," she said with a sly grin. "I think I'll go put them on her grave."

And off she went, skipping along toward the graveyard.

Melts your heart, doesn't it?

Chapter 12.

"Seventeen dollars for a hamburger?!" I gasped, ogling the nosebleed expensive menu at Neiman Marcus's fanciest restaurant.

Lance had taken me there for lunch to cheer me up, knowing that I was a tad down in the dumps over my status as an Official Murder Suspect.

All around us were stick-thin fas.h.i.+onistas pus.h.i.+ng food around their plates, resting their Manolos, and garnering the energy for another round of kamikaze shopping.

I feared the fas.h.i.+on police were standing by in the kitchen, just waiting to arrest me for showing up in my L.L. Bean turtleneck.

"Don't worry about the prices, hon," Lance said with an expansive wave. "I'm using my employee discount. Order whatever you want. As long as it's less than twenty bucks."

That wiped out about two-thirds of the menu, but luckily, my burger still qualified.

"Okay, I'll have the burger."

A look of horror crossed his face.

"At nine hundred ninety calories?"

"How do you know how many calories it has?"

"It says so right on the menu."

I looked down and saw that he was right. Underneath each item was a calorie count.

Talk about your guilt trips.

Well, it wasn't going to work on me. When it comes to calories, my motto has always been, "The more, the merrier." So when the waiter came to our table, I proudly ordered my burger, with extra ketchup.

Lance, after some severe tsk-tsking in my direction, ordered a sensible Mediterranean chopped salad (470 calories).

"I'm sorry I had to rush off the other day," he said when our waiter was gone. "But I'm here for you now, sweetie. You have to fill me in on what happened with the police. Don't leave out a single detail. Uncle Lance will hold your hand through this whole sordid ordeal."

He reached across the table and took my hand in his.

"Well-" I began.

But before I could make it to Syllable Two, he gushed, "Aren't they gorgeous?"

"Aren't what gorgeous?"

"My cuff links."

He flicked his wrists, flas.h.i.+ng a pair of diamond-studded links on the French cuffs of his s.h.i.+rt.

"Donny gave them to me! On Valentine's night. He cooked me dinner at his place in the Hollywood Hills. Chateaubriand for two, a divine bottle of pinot noir, and chocolate mousse for dessert. He hid the cuff links in the mousse," he said, beaming like a lovesick puppy. "Isn't that the most romantic thing ever?"

"Not really. You could've broken a tooth."

"Go ahead," he said, patting my hand in a most patronizing manner. "Rain on my parade. I understand. You're frustrated and unhappy because I wound up with the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune and your significant other is a grumpy cat."

"Who says Donny's the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune?" I sniffed. "Did he tell you that?"

"No," Lance admitted, "but you should see his bathroom cupboard. It's stocked to the gills with Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo. It makes his hair silky soft," he added with a goofy grin.

"So the guy buys in bulk. That doesn't make him an heir."

"All I know is he's been showering me with gifts. First the Rolex. Then the cuff links."

"He does seem to have a lot of money," I conceded.

"It's not just about the money," Lance said, trying his best to look like he meant it. "Donny has all sorts of sterling qualities."

And he was off and running, singing the praises of his beloved Donny, how he was kind and caring and smart and funny, with impeccable taste in wine and clothing-and men, of course.

Eventually our food showed up, but that didn't stop Lance. He barely touched his Mediterranean salad as he blathered on about Donny.

I was sitting there, valiantly trying to keep my eyelids propped open, when I looked up and saw a slim, trendy guy with Brad Pitt aviator gla.s.ses walk into the restaurant. Wait a minute. I knew that guy. It was Travis, Joy's nerdy computer tech. Only he wasn't the least bit nerdy anymore. The former IT geek was duded up in an Italian suit, his floppy locks now artfully arranged in hip spikes.

Yikes. Talk about your makeovers. The guy had done a complete fas.h.i.+on U-ey.

"Excuse me just a minute." Somehow I managed to interrupt Lance, who was in the middle of describing Donny's eyes (cerulean blue with just a hint of aquamarine, for those of you taking notes). "I see someone I know."

"You actually know someone in this restaurant?" asked Lance, blinking in surprise.

"Yes, in fact, I do, and I'm going to say h.e.l.lo."

"Okay, but don't take too long. I still haven't told you about Donny's dimple."

I just prayed it was on his face.

I made my way to Travis's table, my L.L. Bean turtleneck and elastic waist pants attracting quite a few disapproving stares en route.

"Oh, hi, Jaine," Travis said when he saw me coming.

Up close, I could see he'd had his teeth whitened.

"Hey, Travis. How's it going?"

"Great. I just opened my new office. Here, have a card."

He took out a fancy silver card case and handed me an embossed business card, which read:

TRAVIS RICHARDSON.

ELITE MATCHMAKING.

"You've opened your own matchmaking service?" I asked.

"Yes. In fact, I'm meeting a client here for lunch."

Then he flashed me what I'd never seen at Dates of Joy: an appealing grin.

"You should drop by and see me."

"Sure," I nodded, still blown away by his transformation from geekster to sleekster.

After some rather wooden chat about what a shock Joy's death had been, I made my way back to Lance, who took up where he'd left off in his paean to Donny, rambling on until the check came.

"Thanks so much, Lance," I said as he paid the bill. "This was really very sweet of you."

"Oh, honey, what are friends for if not to be there for you in your time of need? Which reminds me, I never did hear about your horrible ordeal with the police. Where did all the time go?"

"Most of it, on Donny's dimple."

As we made our way out of the restaurant, we pa.s.sed a tall blonde in a cashmere slacks set that probably cost more than my Corolla. She headed for Travis's table, undoubtedly the client he'd been talking about.

Looked like his new business was off to a booming start.

Picking up a mint from a bowl on the hostess stand (okay, three mints), I couldn't help but wonder if Travis's sudden change of fortune had anything to do with Joy's murder.

Back home, after an obligatory belly rub for Pro, I hurried to my computer and logged on to Travis's Web site. I checked out the dating profiles of the "typical clients" he'd used to lure in new members.

Holy mackerel. I recognized every one of them. Mainly because Travis had filched them all from Joy's database.

No wonder he was able to get his business off to such a fast start.

And just like that, Travis Richardson leapt on board my suspect list.

Was it possible the former geek had poisoned his boss from h.e.l.l to get his hands on her client list?

Chapter 13.

Much to my surprise, Elite Matchmaking was actually in a fairly elite part of town-just off South Beverly Drive in the heart of Beverly Hills.

I drove there the next morning, and after circling around the popular shopping area for what seemed like hours, I finally nabbed a parking spot and made my way to Travis's office.

I found it in a slightly run-down courtyard building, with loose bricks on the pathway and a fountain that had long since ceased to bubble. But with its vintage 1920s Spanish architecture, it had an undeniable charm.

After checking the directory, I made my way across the courtyard to Elite Matchmaking and knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Travis called out.

I turned the k.n.o.b and stepped into his closet-sized office.

It was tiny to the max, but nicely decorated with a stylish area rug, sleek blond furniture, and three well-placed posters of happy couples holding hands and smiling adoringly at one another.

Travis sat behind his desk, dressed to the nines, with his spiky new hairdo and Brad Pitt aviators, his duct tape nerd gla.s.ses a relic of the past.

"Great to see you, Jaine! Have a seat."

He pointed to the only visitor's chair in the room, an Eames-ish number that picked up one of the colors in his area rug.